A Date with Tamar Ch. 2

Tamar had left my life but I couldn't get her out of my head. She was so different from any woman I had ever met before, so intelligent and capable. Tamar may have been still a teenager but she was far more mature than many older women I had known. What was it that gave this maturity to Tamar? Was it the Army or was it growing up and surviving in a harsh climate and dangerous political situation? The more I thought about Tamar, the more I realized just how special she was and how lucky I had been to meet her.

As I travelled up and down the country on my tour, I tried to forget Tamar and to concentrate on my job. The tour operator shuttled me from holy site to holy site, each one guarded either by dry old nuns or rabbis of indeterminate age. The nuns and the rabbis had one thing in common despite the religious differences. They both seemed to shuffle in an old geezer manner when guiding the tourist around the holy site of their chosen religion. The contrast between the shuffling of these old farts and the youth of Tamar kept reminding me that Israel was a land of contrasts. I decided that I would use the theme of contrasts in my article, the peace and tranquillity of the holy sites versus the violence that often erupted. I wondered if I should use the celibacy of the nuns versus Tamar's obvious enjoyment of sex? Should I contrast Tamar's orthodox upbringing to her skills in bed? It occurred to me that, whatever I wrote for my newspaper, I would have to leave out Tamar, the most interesting part of Israel. After all, I worked for a newspaper that the whole family read.

As I travelled up and down the country, I tried to picture Tamar in my mind. I thought of her black hair, brown eyes, olive skin, her full breasts camouflaged by her army uniform. I even imagined the black, curly hair of her bush between her full solid thighs. Was I falling in love with a manicured soldier? As my tour bus travelled through Israel, I tried to see if I could find her among the soldiers standing at bus stops or trying to hitch rides by the side of the road. They stood in baggy combat fatigues in the dust and the sun with M-16s slung over their shoulders. It was futile to try and find Tamar in those sad groups of kids. Tamar had boasted about her cushy job. No, I would never find Tamar by the side of the road.

I threw myself into my writing at nights to try and forget Tamar and not to become attached to her and to bury my feelings. I arranged my notes and began some of the articles I would publish when I returned home. It didn't work. Every time I tried to write about some place I visited, my thought was how much more fun it would have been to have Tamar tell me what an Israeli thought about the site. I thought about how unfortunate it was that we met my first day in Israel. I was so tired that I just laid back and let Tamar play with me. If only I could see her again and give her the fucking she deserved.

I did have one thrill during my tour of Israel. I went shopping one evening on Allenby Street with an Israeli I had met on one of the Egged tours I had taken. We wandered into a department store and were immediately accosted by a woman soldier. Unlike Tamar, this woman looked as if she had walked all the way from Sharm-al-Sheik to Tel Aviv. She was dusty, dirty with a greasy ponytail tied at the end of her peaked cap. An Uzi was slung over her shoulder as she approached me. In broken English, she rudely told me to spread. Assuming that the Uzi was loaded, I complied and spread with my hands up.

I gazed at the ceiling as her hands went up and down my arms, my legs, over my ass and then started to fondle my jock. Normally, a woman giving all this attention to my crotch would produce an immediate woody. Instead, I found the situation embarrassing. Besides, that, she wasn't all that gentle with her search. I was afraid that I would take bruised balls home to Canada. Still, when a woman has a gun, I let her have her way with me. Afterwards, I asked my friend:

"What was that all about?"

"Oh, she was searching for terrorist weapons."

"Look, my dick is hardly any threat to the security of Israel. I mean, why was that woman feeling up my crotch for so long? She didn't do it to you. Why is a tourist more likely than an Israeli to carry a bomb in his shorts?"

"It's nothing against tourists. She knew right away that you were harmless. She was measuring your dick and checking it out for foreskin. Remember, she's never seen one that hasn't been cut by the mohel. It's all natural curiosity for a woman in her late teens. So please don't be offended."

My second encounter with an Israeli woman soldier made me remember my first, with Tamar. Everything in Israel made me think of Tamar, it seemed. Tamar was cultured, almost elegant, a real queen compared to the rude soldier with an attitude who had just felt me up.

As I was packing my bags and my notes on the holy and archaeological sites, I counted my almost depleted budget of hard currency. What was it about this country that ate money? At that point, the telephone in my hotel room rang. My magazine was owned by an equally cheap newspaper chain that assumed "foreign news" occurred somewhere out in the suburbs of Toronto. Somehow Israel's currency crisis had piqued the curiosity of an editor in the Toronto head office. The editorial Board decided that they needed a man on the spot. Me, in other words. Hard cash could be found at Bank Leumi with the magic number I had just been given.

I had never covered real news before this assignment. Yes, I had been through the journalism classes at Ryerson Polytechnic but I had long ago decided that the slower pace of a features writer suited my skills better. As I unpacked, I tried to remember how to organize a news story, in the sequence of the most important points, not necessarily the sequence in time. I didn't have much time as the Finance Ministry announcement was the next day and my mind kept returning to that evening with Tamar. Try as I could to picture what my teachers had said at Ryerson, all I could picture was Tamar's olive-coloured face. My teachers and Tamar had both taught me a lot but I couldn't imagine any of my teachers providing the fucking that Tamar had my first day in Israel.

The BIG ANNOUNCEMENT turned into a Middle Eastern exercise in theatrics. The Finance minister stood at multiple microphones and, speaking in the most profound Hebrew since the Prophets walked the earth, announced that there would be a New Shekel for man, woman and profits. I was aided in following the financial prophet by an English text, thoughtfully provided by the Finance Ministry and the English-speaking guides from the Taxation Museum. I could follow the Hebrew speech by picking a Hebrew word borrowed from English or another word that ben Yehuda had robbed from French or another foreign language. When I got bored from trying to follow the finance minister's speech, I started to look around at the suck-ups fetching him water and passing cheat notes when the Israeli press' questions became more pointed. Which one of those brownosers was Mossi? Was Mossi the twerp with the bad tie or was Mossi the dork with the baggy pants? Was Mossi one of the spooks at the back of the auditorium. No, not those guys. They were from Shin Bet and Mossi was a bureaucrat. The were dressed in trench coats despite the summer heat, all the better to hide the Uzis, I suppose. What did we need them for? Would someone steal all the New Shekels before they were issued?

As I was musing on who had gotten into Tamar's pants before me and writing my notes, the journalist next to me introduced himself.

"Percival Purves at your service. Working for one of the tit'n bum papers at the moment but I do expect to get a better position soon with one of the provincial papers."

"Christopher …….. from Canada. I work for one of Lord Golliwog's newspapers. Cheap bastard was born in Canada and then he went to England on the money he made. Bought a stuffy old paper and became a Lord of the Realm. Actually, I'm the travel writer for one of his magazines. I'm covering this event just because His Lordship was too cheap to send a real foreign correspondent. They extended my stay here for a few days."

"Well, probably you don't know the filing requirements for news stories in Israel. Did they tell you that you have to clear every news story with the Army Censor's office before it's sent?"

"No, they didn't. How do you do that?"

"It's really no burden. They can be quite helpful most of the time. They're just making sure that no information on military matters gets to people they don't want it to. I don't know what military secrets we could ever find over at the Finance Ministry, unless it's how badly they pay the soldiers doing their two years' service. I say, old chap. When you've got your story done, I'll take you to the Censor's office and introduce you to Colonel Krotchnik. She's a fun girl really, has a bit of a thing for me. Krotchie will see your story gets passed."

We went back to our hotels to write our stories, PP to the King David and I to the far more humble Eldan. Apparently even a humble Brit tit'n bum tabloid could keep its correspondents in better style than Lord Golliwog could. Obviously PP had put out of his mind the little bit of unpleasantness that the British Army had experienced at the King David in 1948. Actually, PP wasn't too bad guy as he picked me up later with my story and drove me to the Army Censor's Office. When we walked in, the tough-looking woman at the front desk got up and greeted PP as if he were an old friend. In a voice with a heavy Eastern European accent, she said:

"Percy, you old Pervert. Vhat interesting things heff you brought today? Does your young friend heff a news story as well? Rega, vun minute and I'll get a jobnik to help your friend."

The gaunt wiry woman walked to the far end of the office without one wiggle of her narrow hips. I looked at her desk and the name on the plate was Colonel Chava Krotchnik. So this was Percy's secret love, Krotchie, career censor. I looked around the office. The room was large, full of mostly women soldiers wielding red pencils on copy in various languages. I wondered why there were so few men in the office when I realised that it went against the Israeli male sense of macho to perform Army service in a non-combat position. My speculations on the Israeli male ego were interrupted by Colonel Krotchnik's jobnik:

"Sir. Your concept of the underlying Hebrew in the Finance Minister's text is vague at best. Your copy also betrays a grasp of English syntax that I can best term tenuous. At least, you have not revealed the identities of the Shin Bet 'spooks' as you call them, so I will not alter that little bit of sarcasm about our country. With your permission, however, I would like to work on your text and improve it. If you will tell me where you are staying, I will deliver the copy personally, well before your deadline."

Why did I take all this arrogant crap from Krotchie's jobnik? Because I couldn't think of what to say to Tamar, the soldier I had met and loved on my first day in Israel and who had been in my thoughts ever since. She was even more beautiful at work, dressed in her everyday uniform, sans weekend makeup. Tamar was a natural beauty, combining the ruggedness of the desert with the lushness of the kibbutzim and moshavim all rolled together with the beauty of Jerusalem. Jerusalem. That reminded me that I was like the woman in the Song of Songs, searching for her lover all over the streets of Jerusalem. In the Song of Songs, the lovers conveniently meet in bed. I found my love by chance in the Censor's Office. Tamar, intelligent girl that she was, sensed my confusion and leaned over and whispered:

"You don't know me. We'll meet later." I took Tamar's cue:

"Well Private Yaakov, I am sorry that the story doesn't meet your exceedingly high standards. I usually write travel pieces and this is my first work as a correspondent. I would be pleased if you could use your valuable experience to assist me. You can courier the copy to me at the Eldan."

Colonel Krotchnik finished her cursory examination of her old Pervert's copy and stamped it with what I assumed was the Hebrew word for Approved. I caught Krotchie giving Pervert's hand a squeeze and remembered Percy saying they had a thing going. On the way back to the hotel, Percy expanded on exactly what the "thing" was:

"Keep this under your hat, Chris old boy. I have a date with Krotchie tonight. Says she has something interesting in leather for me. Likes it a little rough, you know. Lovely girl. Doesn't want commitment, just a partner willing to do it her way."

Yes, Col Krotchnik would take her riding crop to the King David Hotel tonight and play horsy whilst whipping Purves' buttocks into a red, welted fury. You know what English men and Army broads are like. The strange relationship of Krotchie and the Pervert gave me food for thought but I had more important things to ponder. I had found Tamar and this time I wouldn't let her go. Percy must have noticed Tamar as well:

"Actually, if Krotchie hadn't insisted on pleasuring me tonight, I might have had a go at that little Private you were chatting up. What was so dashed interesting? I can only imagine what you had to talk about. She's a real beauty I say. Did you make a date with her?"

"No, we just talked about the story I wrote. She wouldn't pass it so we were discussing what needed to be changed. Private Yaakov was being helpful, just like you said they would be."

I returned to the hotel and waited anxiously for Tamar to bring my story. Finally the telephone rang and the clerk informed me, in a voice that sounded as if he thought this was the wrong room, that a soldier was inquiring after me. I assured him that I was expecting a soldier from the Army Censor and that I would be down right away.

Tamar had my copy, neatly retyped and stamped with the Army's Hebrew mark of approval. Tamar handed it to me with a smile. I looked it over. It was hardly the same story, Tamar had reworked it so that it flowed better and the paragraphs were arranged in the proper sequence. Tamar had a sense of what was important to an Israeli that I wouldn't have grasped in a month, never mind the short week I had spent in Israel. I had to admit that Tamar's version was much better than what I had originally written. Tamar had talent as an editor. Furthermore, the copy was ready well before my deadline. I turned the story over to the clerk for faxing to Toronto and made sure that he heard me say:

"I want to thank you very much, Private Yaakov. May I invite you to dinner as a way of saying that I appreciate your work?"

Tamar grabbed my hand and pulled me in the direction of the dining room.

"Why that would be nice. You don't know how bad Army food can be. …..OK, the clerk can't hear us. Forget the dinner, Christopher. I want that big stiff zain of yours stirring up my insides again. Take me to your room and make love to me. We must hurry, though. I must return to the barracks before eight tonight. Otherwise, Colonel Krotchnik will give me shit for staying out late again."

"Relax, Tamar. Your Colonel Krotchnik is probably at the King David right now, dressed in full leathers and beating Percival Purves' arse to a purple pulp, according to what Percy told me. Don't worry about Colonel Krotchnik catching you AWOL. It takes a long time for a dominatrix to perform her sado-masochism act properly. Your Colonel will be out later than you tonight. So, let's take it slow and easy. Who knows when we will ever have this chance again?"

Tamar relaxed a little and let me take her hand. I wouldn't let her get away and I wasn't about to be rushed. We took the back stairs up to my room. I wasn't sure if the Israeli Army approved of horny foreigners boinking a member of their fighting machine. Besides that, Tamar seemed to be afraid of being reported AWOL in my bedroom.

Having made it without being seen, I started to undress Tamar's regular uniform. I didn't fit very well and she was wearing the same Army-style underwear as when we first 10 days before. Tamar's only concession to style was a gold chain around her ankle. Tamar was shivering because I had turned the air conditioning on full blast to get the room down to Canadian standards of coolness. I undressed quickly and took her by the hand and pulled down the bedsheets.

Tamar pulled the covers up and cuddled up to me to get warm. Tonight, she would get laid Canadian-style. I put my arms around Tamar so I could bring her warm, naked body to mine. I wanted to feel her enormous tits flatten against my chest. I held her so tight that I could feel her erect nipples dig into my chest. Tamar started to paw and grab at my dick. The first time we fucked, I was so tired that I hadn't realised how young and inexperienced Tamar was. In fact, I was so tired that I let Tamar screw me rather than take the initiative. I thought it was about time I started giving directions:

"Tamar. Please slow down. I am over the jet lag so please let me make love to you the way I want to. And I'll be on top this time."

"What are you saying? Israeli men like the woman on the top. They call it the passive-aggressive position."

So that's how Mossi gave it to Tamar it all the time. Well, she would be in for the treat of her short sex life tonight.

"Tamar, Canadian men are different from Israelis. Just let me take over and I will show you the Canadian way of enjoying good sex."

Like the obedient soldier she was, Tamar decided to take her orders from me. I slowly explored Tamar's rock-solid body. My hands moved gently along the smooth curve of Tamar's hips and over her thin waist. I felt her ribs move in and out with rapid breathing. My hand touched the base of Tamar's huge, firm tit. Tamar responded to my hand on her tit with a slight shudder. I was in luck. Those big tits weren't just for show. Tamar had sensitive tits and I would caress them until she was in a sexual frenzy.

Tamar's responses and the feel of her tits had its effect on me. An immediate message went from my brain to my dick: "Head to Dick: Get ready for a good one. Hot woman in bed." My dick responded by getting harder and harder and crawling up Tamar's stomach. Tamar moved closer for a better feel. I gently moved my free hand over her breast, firm enough so that I didn't tickle but not so firm that I hurt. Breasts as sensitive as Tamar's required my special touch. Finally, with my hand on her tit but not touching the nipple, I began to suck on the nipple and play with its erectness with my tongue. Tamar acknowledged that she was with a tit expert.

"Oh Chris. Your touch is so sweet. Mossi never touches me like that."

Eat your heart out Mossi. Maybe you've got your career but I've got your woman in bed with me and she really loves it. Tamar grabbed my wrist and tried to push it downward on her stomach. "Slowly," I said, "I want to make this moment last." I gave each tit all the attention they deserved. Did I mention how big Tamar's tits were? It took me some time to smother each of these enormous tits with kisses, just as it takes more time to climb Mount Everest than to climb one of the Laurentians.

I moved my hand over Tamar's flat, firm stomach. My hand gently rubbed Tamar's black, wet bush on the mound. Tamar had so much fur on her snatch and it was so wet I thought I was stroking a wet animal. At this point, Tamar bit my shoulder without realizing it, leaving a bruise that I would carry back to Canada. Tamar was breathless as if she was on a forced march with full kit. I was pushing her sexually as no man had before. I passed over her bush and my hand went down the inside of her thigh. Tamar was so wet that she had begun to trickle don her legs. I went down her leg to her knee, gently caressing under her knee. Tamar eagerly parted her legs, saying: